


born to fly

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Brief mention of prostitution, Companions, Dragons, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: Brock and Jack, two very different men, both share the same mark as dragon riders. Is this fate or love? Or perhaps those two are very different after all...





	born to fly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalika999 (kalika_999)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalika_999/gifts).

> For the tropes Pining and also Forced Proximity. 
> 
> A prologue for an idea Kali had. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy it, Kali! ❤️

After fourteen hours of labor, a farmer’s wife gave birth to their first and only son. He bore the mark of a Rider. The midwife who cleaned and swaddled the infant hadn’t seen such a symbol in all her years and had she not been there to bear witness herself, would have dismissed it as a myth. 

How a family so unimportant could produce a child with such high honor was beyond her. 

They named him Jack which, she commented to her apprentice, was so dreadfully plain for a child of his stature. 

Jack was not kept from his destiny but also was not treated any differently than they might have treated a normal child. He did chores, tended the farm, and respected his elders. Often he wondered how he might happen upon a dragon and if perhaps the mark was a mistake. 

When he woke on the morning of his tenth birthday it was to a cold chill across his shoulders. Moss green eyes looked blearily over his room. It was a small space, just off from the kitchen and large enough to hold a chest drawers and his cot with a small window. Jack noticed the window was open and frowned to himself. His mother was always very cross about him leaving it propped open during the cold months. Surely their time spent chopping and stacking cords of wood wasn’t in vain? It was only after he closed the window, dark hair sticking up unevenly, that he noticed the egg on top of his dresser. 

He stood there a moment, shivering a bit from the cold air, taking in the sight before him. Somehow he knew what it was and that it had been brought to him because he was destined for it. He still pinched himself, just to ensure he was awake. “Mom!”

She was already awake making breakfast by the smell of bacon that wafted to him. His parents did not coddle him special treatment because he bore the mark of a Rider but on Jack’s birthday he may as well have been the King himself! Immediately he could hear her hurrying over to the door. 

“What is it Jack — it’s freezing in here! How many times have I told you about that wind… Oh.” She seemed struck speechless, like Jack when he was tending the fields and travelers asked directions. She snapped out of it much faster than expected and smiled widely but it was pained. “Jack, I’m so happy for you.”

At the time Jack did not know that this was just a confirmation that his parents sole child would leave them forever in the future to risk his life for the protection of the hidden world they lived in. He didn’t understand that when she turned away to tell his father her voice was hitched with tears. Jack was just trying to figure out who knew how to look after a dragon’s egg. 

•• •• •• ••

In the City of Poquette a woman of the night gave birth after sixteen minutes. 

She was young, sickly, and turned her face away before the woman who paused to help her could hand back the child. The companion, a malnourished bitch with matted fur lay a few feet away and did not turn her head toward the crying baby either. 

“I can’t, ” was all she would say before succumbing to a bout of the Cough. “But call him Brock.”

Standing beneath the gas lamps on a filthy cobblestone path, the woman wrapped her satin shawl tightly around the baby and ignored the prostitute's departure though it pained her to do so. The Cough would take her soon and her milk was tainted. 

Brock had come into the world by chance, unwanted, and on the coldest and darkness of the year. 

Poquette was near the docks, where the Veil was thinnest and the magic in the lands waned. In the distance there were bright windows lit up by candles and good fortune but down below where the air smelt of the sea and poverty the lights seemed dimmer and the future of an orphan was as bleak as his mother’s. Should he make it to boyhood, it would be a life of crime. 

The woman wrapped the shawl around him a tighter aware of the bite that came with the wind. “Brock,” she said softly as she held him to her chest. “I am not your mother but I will do my best to find you somewhere safe, if only for the night.”

What more could a widow promise? Her husband was long gone, body at the bottom of the sea after a sudden storm took an entire crew. She could hardly get by herself much less care for another. She passed by the old and decrepit, ignored the leers and suggestions that stopped abruptly when the sound of a crying baby reached their ears. Her husband told her Poquette was a last resort and that once he made enough money importing goods, they would leave it and go to the wooded villages in the East. 

That dream met a watery grave as well.

She climbed the stone steps up from the low levels where the poor were up to where there were few cracks in the walls and beggars were scarce. Here the City guards did rounds occasionally, two nodding at her and one pausing to assure she was alright. 

“Awfully cold to bring your little one out,” he commented. “Can’t be more than a few hours old, can he?”

She offered him a weary smile. “I am going to the Church. His mother…” she paused, uncertain on how the spawn of a whore would be received. 

Surely her own mother would have turned up her nose and made sure she burnt every item of clothing that touched the woman’s blood. “passed.”

“My condolences, my lady.” That title hadn’t been given to her in many years and it hurt more than expected. “Allow me to escort you.”

The priest ushered them in, offering bread and watery soup as comfort while they warmed themselves by the hearth. A nun was summoned and took the child, the guard excused himself back to his duties and wished her safe travels. 

“I know you sometimes take in orphans,” she said carefully, “For the clergy.”

“On occasion.” The Priest nodded his head and looked toward the shrines in the front of the church. “We haven’t the time nor the funds to raise a child. You say his mother died?”

“Yes.”

“And what of the father?”

The Widow could not lie to a priest so with a heavy heart she recounted her plight. The priest nodded, eyes stern but expression unwavering. “That is quite unfortunate.” 

The Widow opened her mouth to respond when the nun came in. She had only seen them as the utmost regal figures so the way she dashed in caught the Widow by surprise. “Father,” the nun said, “Father you must bear witness.”

The priest expressed a bit of surprise at this and followed the nun down the hallway. The Widow looked at the Shrines and leopard at her side rested her head against the outside of her thigh. She ran her fingers through silky fur as the priest and nun returned with the baby properly wrapped. 

“The child has been marked as a Rider.”

Words died in the Widow’s throat. There hadn’t been one in hundreds of years but rumor had it one had been born just last year. They were a rarity, one every century or so, her grandmother once said. “B-but there is already…”

“Yes, it seems the sun has aligned to give us two Riders.” The Priest looked back at the Shrine of the Sun, the golden bright beside the flickering flames. “A blessing, I hope. Perhaps a warning. Either way we cannot raise a Rider. We have a vow of nonviolence. Bring him to the guard’s keep with this and they will take the boy.”

The Widow took Brock back in her arms and the parchment sealed in silver wax with the crest of the Church. “Thank you,” she said numbly.

•• •• •• ••

Brock was raised in the Rumlow Keep on the furthest side of Poquette. His comrades were his teachers and he had a sword in hand before he could even walk. He trained with grown men at the age of eight and defeated most by age nine. Brock knew of his destiny but wondered when his dragon would come to him. The old guard who had accepted him when the Widow delivered him always recognized the scowl Brock get when he grew weary of waiting and would ruffle his hair which never seemed to lay down properly and remind him that a ‘watched egg won’t hatch’ which just pissed off the Rider even more. 

On the morning of his tenth birthday he sat up on his straw mattress to Davie kicking at him. Not hard enough to break anything but enough to smart. Brock considered slicing his Achilles to avoid such wake ups in the future when the egg caught his eye, resting against his breastplate. “Burnt my fuckin’ hands on that thing, Brock!” Davie complained. “Whatcha doin’ leaving somethin’ like ‘round ‘fore?”

“I didn’t leave it there,” Brock scrambled up to his knees. “It yer own fault for touchin’ my shit.”

Davie curled his lips. “Figured a dragon egg’ll go for a lotta gold.” Brock sent a sideways look his way to gauge if he was joking or not. Probably not, knowing the lot around here. “Good luck touchin’ it though Brockie.”

“Don’t call me that,” snapped Brock as he edged closer to it. 

It was bigger than a chicken’s egg though that wasn’t anything new to Brock. He had imagined it would be delivered to him in front of everyone, a big winged beast dropping the egg into his hands. Fate had arrived and Brock was...wary. What if it didn’t like him? What if it got broken or stolen?

“A real life dragon’s in there kid. You just wanna stare at it?” Davie demanded and aimed a kick at him again. 

Brock rolled of the way, inwardly wincing at the bruised spots where Davie had gotten a good kicks in prior, and swept his feet out from under him. 

“Bastard!” Davie snarled he landed with a heavy and painful sounding thud. “Well go on then, ‘Marked One’ touch it.”

Garrison, who was the best fighter in Rumlow Keep said that Davie was always one off and got kicked in the head by a mule. His companion was a rat. He was a menacing fighter but he wasn’t the smartest of the bunch. Probably why he was the only one who teased a ten year old.

“I ain’t gon’ do it while yer lookin’.” Brock snarked back. “Pro’lly blind ya with the light of Sun God and all that.”

Davie’s challenging glower wavered a bit. “Yer jokin’.” Davie didn’t look so sure and Brock took shameless advantage. 

“If ya say so. Good luck perryin’ with us in the outlands when yer blind,” Brock went so far as to reach toward the egg as Davie scrambled his feet.

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” He hollered and Brock relished his win as the door latched shut. 

Then his eyes went right back to the egg. It had to be at least a foot tall, maybe longer, big and round. It was grayish in coloring, a bit pearly in the early light. The warmth of it radiated toward him as he reached forward. It was warm to the touch but not uncomfortably so… He’d have to see how badly Davie was burned. 

“Guess I really am the Marked one,” he murmured to himself. 

He picked up the egg and was surprised by it’s heft. He’d lifted plenty of swords and spears, shield and armor, but lugging this thing around would be a chore and a half. 

“Did ya burn yer hand?” Davie called through the door, “are ya glowin’?”

Brock was disappointed to find he was not glowing but it was hard to be upset when he was holding his dragon his arms. Well, his would-be dragon. “I turned it off,” Brock told him, “You can come in if you ain’t gonna kick me.”

“I should kick you. Look what that damn dragon did to my hands and it ain’t even born yet!” Davie came bursting back in and shoved large calloused hands that were red and glossy from touching the egg in his face. “Imagine once it grown it’ll set this whole place on fire.”

“I ain’t gonna be here,” Brock reminded him for the umpteenth time since they met last fall. “I’m a Rider, Davie. Me and my dragon are gonna be soaring up in the sky. Maybe if yer real nice I won’t let ‘im eat you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Davie narrowed his eyes and the meal horn blew. “Wait ‘til I tell e’r’y’one! They ain’t gonna believe it, Brock.”

“Go on and tell ‘me. I’ll be down in a minute, gotta to do somethin’ first.”

“Gotta go to the washroom or gotta do somethin’ with yer dragon?” Davie asked suspiciously. 

“Mind yer own,” Brock bristled. He had known that people would start to notice him more once he got the dragon but it always seemed like something in the far away distance. “I’ll be down, save us a spot.”

He waited until the lumbering footsteps were gone before he got to his feet and ran up a flight of stairs of Garrison’s quarters. The healer always refused to let him in before noontime or later than sundown but Brock knew she would be getting him breakfast. Brock wasn’t sure how he got to be so old but he didn’t spar with him so much anymore and it was too bad because he was one of the best. Brock let himself in and Garrison looked up from the daily print that arrived just before sun-up. 

“Ah so your Companion has arrived,” Garrison said with a smile. The boar rose to its feet tusks long and dangerous looking, now especially even if it had gone from brown to silver in the last few years. Brock was holding his Companion who hadn’t even been born yet! “Pull up a chair and humor an old man with something he never thought he’d see.”

Brock did so, arms getting tired from carrying around the egg. 

“It’s real heavy,” Brock complained. “Davie burned his hands trying to steal it!”

“Dragons are intelligent Brock and they gauge humans faster than we can. Even though it’s just a baby, it can defend itself.”

“It’s just an egg,” Brock pointed out. “It keeps itself safe by getting hot?”

“When you first came to me, I knew nothing of Riders of Dragons except that they were myths and they guarded the Gate. I did more book learning when you were a boy than I did the rest of my life combined. A dragon’s shell is just as magical as the beast within it. Harder than steel, hotter than fire if it needs to be. It knows who it’s destined to belong to.”

Brock nodded his head and tried to chase away his fears of someone stealing his companion because it was so rare. The boar had settled down again, lying between Garrison’s bed and where Brock had sat with the egg resting on his lap. 

“To hatch a dragon is to give it space but also to nurture it.” 

“A watched egg won’t hatch?” Brock guessed.

Garrison laughed. “Clever boy. Build your companion a nest near your cot. Don’t fret when you’re away from it, it will keep after itself just fine. Talk to it, let the dragon within — your dragon, Brock — know your voice.”

“A nest? With twigs?” 

“Interestingly enough there are no writings on how to properly nest an egg, just the recounting of Phillip Fletching, a Rider from the Old Times. He kept the egg in a chest beneath heavy blankets. His dragon, he named him Cheryn, did not appreciate the darkness because he set the entire trunk — and Phillip’s boyhood home — on fire. No one was harmed but perhaps do not put the egg in a chest.”

Brock took half a second to swallow that bit of information before he asked how long it took for his dragon to come out. “Fletching’s account suggest two seasons but his egg came to him later than you.”

Brock’s chest puffed out a bit. Surely that because he was so very mature and skilled that his dragon needed to come now. Brock asked what would happen when his dragon hatched when the door opened and the healer’s awful cat began to hiss and spit at him being there. “Brock how many times must I tell you,” she began, voice shrill and nasally until she caught sight of the egg in his lap. “Oh, my.”

“Indeed,” Garrison looked pleased. “Go on and get your breakfast Brock. Nest that egg and get back to your training.”

Brock ended up setting the egg between the beams that ran vertically up the walls and wrapping some hides around its base. It hardly seemed fitting but he gave it an awkward pat. 

“Hope that’ll do. I’d ‘preciate it if ya didn’t burn down the Keep too.”

•• •• •• ••

Jack finished shearing the sheep and putting all the wool in burlap sacks. 

Between his time on the farm and training in the village he was tired. Most days and fell into his bed without paying much mind to the egg on his dresser. But it was a stifling summer day so he stripped off the rough cotton shirt and tossed it aside. He didn’t pay any mind to where it landed, he was just desperate for some rest. He shoved his head under his pillow and was asleep immediately.

He woke up to the sensation of something slimy on his cheek. The now twelve year old swept away what he thought was drool and felt tiny sharp teeth dig into his hand. Jack yelped and fell backward out of the bed. It was late and the moonlight shrouded everything in darkness. But there was something moving, Jack could see it shifting in the shadows. Maybe a mouse or a rat? He fumbled for the book of matches and lit the oil lamp beside his bed. He saw a flash of black and something dove beneath his pillow. 

Rubbing sleep out of his eyes Jack drew in a breath to prepare himself for killing a rat so late at night. It was habit to glance at the egg but what saw was thick goop spilling over what remained of the shell and his shirt half draped over it. 

Jack could hardly believe it. His dragon had actually hatched. Creeping closer to the bed he lifted the pillow slowly. The dragon was curled up but it lifted its head to look at Jack. The boy knelt down reaching slowly toward it. He expected it to shy away or maybe bite him again but it drew back a bit, then pressed it snout against the tip of his index finger and sniffled at him for a moment. It stretched out its little wings, and stood. About the size of a rat, Jack assessed, but it would grow. 

It stepped onto his hand and curled up in the palm of his hands. Jack tentatively ran his index finger long its back, careful of its small size and wings. Warm and smooth with little bumps on it’s spine that he suspected would become horns or spikes. It was all black with opal eyes Jack had been able to glimpse for a second. “I’m gonna call you Emory,” decided Jack quietly and the dragon opened its eyes a moment as if to agree with it’s Rider. 

Jack extinguished the lamp and got into bed though he could hardly sleep a wink, afraid that if he blinked his dragon would be gone.

The next morning the dragon was not gone and his mother’s morning dove flew in anxious circles around the kitchen while his father’s ferret climbed up onto his shoulder and stared down the dragon perching on the Rider’s shoulder. “It hatched.” Jack said with such pride it would seem like had more to do with process than he actually had.

“Guesso,” his father said. “It better not spook the cows while you’re out there milking.”

Emory did make the cows nervous for a while but they, like his parents adjusted to the rapidly growing creature. He doubled in size almost weekly and his appetite was nothing to shake their heads at. He went from taking bits off of Jack’s plate to consuming entire slabs of beef. He grew bigger each day, wings stretching out, limbs growing and the nubs grew out to sharp horns. 

Emory’s hind legs had great clawed feet and his wings seemed to double at his arms with a hook like claw he used to anchor and balance himself when he landed on trees or, much to Jack’s dismay, the house. From the size of a rat to just barely larger than Jack’s shire horse, Emory grew. He was a fearsome beast to many and whispers in town spoke of Emory as a demon dragon because fables always told of dragons with brightly colored scales. 

Jack was fond of his companion even if their future frightened him more than he cared to admit. For such a massive dangerous creature Emory was gentle with Jack, nudging him with his scaly snout, rounded much like a horse and using his mighty wingspan (still growing) to spray water from the lake onto Jack. 

It was easy and carefree and Jack preferred playing with his dragon to one day mounting him and flying into perilous danger. After all the now sixteen year old had never been in the sky — perhaps he would hate it? He watched Emory in the sky, how light he seemed with his huge black wings carrying him through the air, long tail lined with horns behind him. 

Beautiful, Jack thought with a small smile. He couldn’t deny the way his heart ached to be with Emory but fear made him keen on keeping both feet firmly on the ground. 

•• •• •• •• 

The sound of the egg cracking open roused Brock from sleep two moons after he his egg. He blinked bearily, rubbing a hand over his face in exhaustion and he peered around the dark room for the source of his late night disturbance. He could sleep through Marcus coming back from a night shift and Dakon rising to replace him, but the sharp crackling was piercing...apparently for his ears alone. 

He rose to his knees, careful of alerting those around him as his pulse leapt like a frightened mare. Crawling toward the exposed beams across the room he pulled back the fleece blanket to see large cracks traveling along the surface of his dragon egg. He was torn between panic and fascination, afraid it was much too soon. Before his eyes the egg split apart abruptly, his dragon standing there, teeny and pale, with little tendrils of smoke rising from his nose. Brock lowered his face, watching it shake its body and beat its tiny wings a few times before peering suspiciously at the surrounding egg shells and snapping at them for good measure.

A small smile spread across Brock’s face, oddly satisfied by how feisty it was for its size. Brock offered his hand, breath held in fear of rejection. The dragon bore it’s teeth, tiny little things that glimmered in the light before it snuffled at his fingertips. It’s body glistened with whatever goo was on it and Brock’s lip curled a bit in disgust as the dragon curled up in the palm of his hand. Wet and warm but undoubtedly part of him. 

He decided he would call his dragon Venus.

Brock settled back to sleep carefully, an emptiness he didn’t know he harbored filled.

A decade passed before Brock’s eyes as his dragon grew, scales pearly and bright. He was protective and ferocious even when he was pocket sized so now, larger than his steed, he was a force to be reckoned with. Galloping through the forest toward the unknown would have been terrifying, should it been anyone other than Brock going there. Years of protecting Poquette had made him fearless, in his humble opinion and no one could handle a sword like he could (and no dragon could be more fearsome than Venus). 

So of course there was no fear of what awaited him at the Gates, a place that separated their work from the darkness of the Other World. What that world held Brock did not know; the Sacred Texts talked of demons and demise while other theorized in the town square of a land much like their own where morals walked without Companions. 

Sheer foolishness, Brock knew. The Gates were the end of the world and their job was to keep the dead from coming back — because dragons were the only thing the dead could fear: a second burning, beyond the funeral, would kill the soul. 

He knew this because an old woman told him and she had the Companion of an owl, the wisest creature there is. 

•• •• •• ••

The cottage was smaller than Jack expected, the stable meant for one horse. 

The last village was miles back, and it’s people had watched him pass through with eyes sharp and curious. Emory had been off hunting and Jack appreciated the acreage of uninhabited lands where he could explore and where Emory could feed. Jack had received a letter instructing him to come here, a well known place where no one was permitted to travel and no one dared visit. 

Nervousness lodged a ball in his throat and he got down from his horse’s saddle. A stream ran behind the cottage pooling in a vast lake where a river flowed down from the rocks. The water was crisp and cool, fish fat with indulgence of swimming freely. It was beautiful but it wasn’t the home he knew. 

The Gate was made of dark wood, ancient and petrified. An ominous opening that seemed to seep darkness into their world. Jack didn’t dare look at it too long, focusing instead at his home. He knew that the other Rider lived here and was somewhat disappointed that he wasn’t there to greet properly (and he was eager for a look at his dragon). 

He turned away from the dense wall of tangled branches that stretched farther than the eye could see and stopped dead. He was staring into the maw of dragon with endless rows of dagger-like teeth and fire swelling in its throat. It was a dragon, but not Jack’s dragon and he dove out of the way as the scorching flames erupted toward him. 

Jack tumbled across the ground, the smell of burning grass and the sound of blood rushing in his ears all he could focus on. He threw himself onto his back, staring at the creature. It shimmered brilliantly in the late afternoon sun, scales pearly and nearly translucent as he watched fire swirling around its chest. It had four legs, as opposed to his dragon’s two, wings folded in tightly while sharp eyes, black as coal, were trained on him. It’s snout was sharper than Emory’s as well, it’s entire head far more angular with sharp ridges. 

Jack was fairly certain he facing his death but to die by the fire of such a magnificent beast was more than he could wish for. Then, as fire spouted toward him Emory swooped in, fireproof scales deflecting the flames as he roared in a way Jack had never quite heard before but cause goosebumps to travel across his skin.

The dragons circled each other, snapping near each other’s throats without making contact. Jack looked between the spectacle to the smoldering grass a few feet away. Emory stretched out his wings, making a strange high pitched screech that had the other dragon growling and snapping at his wings. 

Jack’s was larger, but not by enough to make him confident Emory wouldn’t be harmed. 

“Helluva way to meet.”

Jack cranked just around so sharply it was a wonder he didn’t end up breaking his neck. The Rider was seated upon a chestnut horse, lean with glossy fur and bearing the shield of the Guard. He was tongue tied before the handsome man appeared and now his mouth was bone dry and his brain turned to mush. It was too much to comprehend at once. 

“I’m Jack,” he finally managed, throat sticking a bit and turning his voice rusty.

“‘m Brock.” He swung a leg over and hopped off the horse, crossing his arms as he nodded towards the dragons. “I wondered how they’d get along. I hoped it would be better than this.” 

Brock. Jack was still turning the name around  
in his head, trying to decipher if his eyes were honey or hazel. 

“Brock.” He ended up echoing like a complete dunce as he repeated his name, the crazy urge to kiss him striking him. 

“Yeah, that’s me.” He peered down at Jack, seeming exceptionally unimpressed. “What’re ya doin’ down there?”

For a moment, Jack couldn’t remember why he was on the ground beside a charred bit of long grass but as the dragon shrieked once more, he remembered. “Your dragon tried to kill me.”

Brock chuckled. “Yeah, he does that sometimes — ‘specially to the new people. Lemme give ya a hand, pal.” 

Jack took the hand offered and was impressed by the smaller man’s ability to pull him to his feet. “Jack, huh?” Brock said when Jack proved speechless once more. “Ya from ‘round here?”

Jack could only shake his head.

“Me neither — othersid’a the world just about. Poquette, heard of it?”

Jack could distinguish the pride he held for the city in his voice, the fond little smile on his lips as he said its name. Home was home, after all. “Can’t say I have but I didn’t get much further than the village before I came here.”

Maybe Jack was being a bit too open with someone he had just met (and who’s companion tried to kill him — such things were incredibly impolitely) but something about Brock knocked down any defensive walls he had. Whether that was Fate or something far more sinister he would have to find out. 

•• •• •• ••

Adjusting to another person wasn’t as difficult as Brock had imagined. He has grown up sharing cramped living spaces with five other men so one more was nothing. In fact having another person to talk to was actually pleasant, Brock found — when he could get Jack to talk.

Guarding the Gate sounded far more thrilling when others were telling him of his fate when he was a boy but in all reality, it was mostly insufferable boredom staring at the one gap evil may enter through. 

Days blurred into weeks and those weeks to months as Brock and Jack got to know each other. No topic went undiscussed, no stories untold and no words unspoken. 

Well, actually, that wasn’t true. 

Brock had grown up in a Keep and knew plenty about the glory between a woman’s legs but no one had mentioned what lay between those of men. Not in the same light, at least. 

They were comrades, quickly becoming closer than friends and Brock found himself enjoying those moments when their skin touched unnecessarily, whether it be Jack passing behind him to check the wood in the fireplace or when Jack tenderly wrapped a gouge in his leg from hunting a boar. It was foolish and dangerous, quite possibly sinful and most definitely stupid but he thought about kissing Jack when they sat together to watch the sun rise and fall. There was nothing else to do out there, besides chores and exercising the horses. 

It was vastly different from the city and Brock hated it and loved it all at once. 

Emory and Venus got along much better, often tussling around and nipping at each other. They grew rapidly, soon dwarfing their home. 

“I’ll never get used to him missin’ two legs,” Brock commented as he watched Emory tilting his head, now larger than Jack’s massive horse. 

His claws left deep divots in the earth where he landed and the journey into the village for provisions was now peppered with places that Emory had attempted to land and hold onto the trees only for them to be snapped like twigs. 

“And I will never get used to Venus having two extra legs,” Jack snarked back before offering a smile. “That Venus is just an overgrown salamander.” 

Brock barked out a laugh before feigning his most intimidating pose. “Then yers is jus’ a bat. But I’ve seen bigger.”

Jack grinned, turning away from Emory who grumbled a bit at the loss of attention and then took off with a mighty gust. “Those are certainly fighting words I hope you can back up.”

“I’ve been told I’m exceptionally good with a sword,” Brock replied.

“Well women for pay will say anything for extra coins.” Jack ribbed and when the smaller man grabbed him around the middle he fell easily to the ground.

They wrestled a bit, fueled on by boredom and good spirits until they fell apart, lying side by side staring into a vast blue sky. “You know this isn’t what I imagined when I was told I’d be a Rider,” Jack said suddenly.

Brock watched a cloud floating by with a lazy hum of agreement.

“I imagined great battles, facing death each day as I was flying over my enemies…”

“Are ya disappointed?” Brock turned to look at Jack when he trailed off, appreciating how his eyes were the same hue as the grass. 

“No, I think I prefer this life over what I expected.” Jack’s head fell to the side catching him by surprise. He had seemed so deep in thought he didn’t really expect him to reply at all. “Don’t you?”

Brock’s mouth was dry, eyes trained on Jack’s lips. They were close enough he could feel a tickle of breath against his face — all he needed to do was shift his head over a bit and then he’d do it. He’d kiss a man he had fallen in love with. Brock turned his face away, self hatred simmering in his stomach as he shrugged his shoulders. 

“It’s alright.”

Because until he found the courage to press his lips to Jack’s, it wouldn’t be perfect. 

•• •• •• ••

The day Brock suggested they try to mount their dragons Jack considered heaving into the water bucket to stay in bed instead. 

His stomach knotted in fear and he was desperate to think of an excuse — though none readily came to him. So, with dew still clinging to the blades of grass Jack stood beside Emory who seemed oddly at ease. 

“Where d’ya reckon we sit?”

Jack glanced at Venus who had horns along his angular face and snout and sharp spikes on his tail but was silky smooth scales everywhere else. Panic gripped Jack by throat — what if Brock fell or got hurt? There was nothing for him to hold onto. 

“I don’t know.” Jack truly felt sick saying it because Brock was never one to let the impossible deter him.

He had insisted he could cut down the bear that left Jack with a scar down his chin with his sword and he had — despite Jack’s objections. Truthfully the passion and care had been flattering and the worry in his eyes sincere. So no, Brock of Rumlow keep would not be kept from the sky by lack of proper hand holds. Jack would fit comfortably between the ridge of horns running down Emory’s spine — Brock was still assess Venus who was snuffling in his wing seeming bored. 

“I’ll sit behind the wing joints,” Brock decided abruptly and jumped without any further thought.

Jack was petrified that Venus would take off immediately and Brock would plummet to his death before him but Venus merely adjusted his footing, growled in annoyed and turned his head around to judge Brock up further. 

“There!” Brock looked awfully proud seated on his dragon, and Jack fell a bit further in love with him. “Whatcha waiting for Jack? C’mon!”

Emory did not lend the same nose up that Venus had but Jack was taller and had little trouble straddling the dragon. His hands clenched around the horns, nearly the same height he was sitting, and gulped.

“Please don’t let me die up there,” he whispered and he hoped Emory understood him. 

Venus took off first and Jack wasn’t sure if it was good or bad as he watched him rising higher and higher. Brock was silent, eerily so, and Jack watched helplessly as Venus soared off.

Suddenly he was rising too, leaning backwards as Emory straightened up from his crouch and reared, wings stretch out. Jack clenched the horns, begging the Gods to let him find ground safely and then… His stomach dropped to his toes as he rocked back and forth with each beat of Emory’s wings.

Jack was exhilarating and breathless and terrified and still looking for Brock while he told himself not to look down. 

“Lookin’ a little green in the gills there Rollins!” Brock shouted over the wind.

The relief was almost as dizzying as realizing he was flying and he laughed a bit maniacally. Brock was a sight to take in at least, leaning forward along the sleek light hued dragons, just radiating joy as he glanced at Brock. 

While Jack was glad Brock found so much enjoyment so far from the ground he knew he’d take a few more trips to adjust.

•• •• •• ••

“It was just so...beautiful.”

Days after their trip above the clouds Brock still couldn’t help but rave about it. He dreamed of it and was eager to get back up there but Jack seemed slightly less eager though far less resistant saying he needed more to ‘recover’. Jack finished ladling out his bowl of stew and sat in the open chair by the fire. 

Eating and talking beside the fire was practically tradition now and it wasn’t something Brock wanted to change. Maybe it was silly and far too domestic for men who wore the Mark of the Rider but it felt too right and too warm to deny. The warmth Jack had brought with him, Brock realized. Something about him transformed the cottage from their quarters to their homes the same way he had managed to turn himself from acquaintance to...something Brock was still scared to speak of.

Fear and Brock Rumlow did not go hand in but somethings were too delicate to touch. He feared upsetting their delicate balance of closeness and losing the first home he’d ever known of. 

“It was something,” Jack agreed and the fire danced in his eyes. “So were you.”

Brock was certain he had misunderstood and he cocked his head. “Huh?”

Jack’s cheeks flushed and wonderful pink and Brock began to wonder if the feelings went both ways. It was thrilling and the chances were thin to nothing. 

“I just meant — you looked good up there. Comfortable. Natural.” Jack looked down and muttered, “Beautiful.”

“You think I’m...beautiful?”

Jack didn’t say a word for a long time, a log popping sharply in the tension between them. 

“Yeah. Yeah I do.”

Brock laughed, he couldn’t help it. He felt like an idiot for not saying something sooner, for doubting any clues he had picked up that Jack Rollins liked him as something other than a friend. He had noticed his eyes, his lingers gazes when they washed up together had the warm smile he had when they rode trails together.

Fate had truly brought them together for this life, whether it be quiet or chaotic. 

“Will you kiss me?” Brock finally asked when he stopped laughing.

“I was afraid you’d never ask.” 

FIN


End file.
